


Flet

by PurpleProsaist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Lothlórien, One Shot, Purple Prose, Staring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 09:53:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18258902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleProsaist/pseuds/PurpleProsaist
Summary: He's caught you. Say something, Sam Gamgee. Words. Some words.





	Flet

The elanor's sleepily nodding blooms spread out below, waving in the slightest breeze, silver dew upon petal and blade. Countless fathoms away, however, the mass of them form a formless and shimmering veneer floor. 

Sam has not yet paid this sight its due appreciation, but the flowers can wait for the moment. Although they are, no doubt, what Frodo had asked him up here to enjoy. _Together,_ Sam fails not to remind himself. 

His heart blocks his throat to look upon Frodo sitting there. In large part simply because he is looking upon Frodo — and in equally large part for precisely where Frodo has chosen to perch, swinging his legs, carefree, over the edge. Sam bites his clumsy tongue about it lest his faith in Frodo's good sense (and balance) be put into question. He does trust him, and knows well enough to be grateful for the frisky air about Frodo and what blessing it spells about his wellbeing, yet still Sam cannot help the potential dread that prickles beneath his skin. 

He also cannot help his bated breath, for they are sitting just barely close enough that Sam can minutely sense the aura of Frodo's warmth, stark contrast as it is to the atmospheric chill enveloping them. Frodo's eyes are downturned to their own indulgement as the starlight so gingerly kisses his brow. (Before this moment, Sam would have never imagined he could feel envious of starlight.) He is dazzling, the lines of his profile delicately masculine, and he remains gracefully poised even when kicking his feet like a child in a tall chair. And his curls so happen to tumble over the point of his ear in such a tantalizing manner that Sam is agonized not to reach out and touch. The hair or the ear, he knows not which exactly. 

What eventually hauls him from his reverie is Frodo's voice, so hushed that Sam knows it is intended for his ears only (to the exclusion even of the calling crickets and other hidden life all about them), "I can feel your eyes, Sam." The tone is even and observational rather than accusatory, but Sam's entire world is already plummeting out of grasp. 

_He's caught you. Say something, Sam Gamgee. Words. Some words._ Frodo has not looked up, but Sam recognizes the wicked (wickedly dashing) smirk on his face and knows Frodo is watching him too now, from the corner of his eye. Overtaken by a dizzying sense of imminent disaster, Sam rushes, bumbling: "Well, you could certainly try, sir. But, pardon, it'd be awful hard to keep from blinkin'." 

Frodo does look at him fully then, scrunches his brow curiously, and blinks once himself, before suddenly he is thrown backwards, shoulders against the floor. The welcome sound of laughter, musical and sugary, bubbles past his lips and out into the night sky. With a cheek-splitting smile, Sam cannot stifle his own glee either, and for a while they carry on, giggling and spluttering up to helpless full belly laughs that cannot be reined in for many long moments. 

Though perhaps Sam's whimsical turn of Frodo's words had played the catalyst, an understanding hangs heavily upon the air that they laugh for both of their nonsense — for the entire asinine tip-toed dance of furtive words and actions they had woven each other into as of late — though neither yet openly acknowledges so, which merely serves to drag out their shared fit of hilarity ever longer. 

When gradually they calm, and the quieter sounds of the night are audible once again, the meek whisper of the wind booms to Sam's ears for the threat of what secrets it may be murmuring into the other's. Frodo's hands rest where they had fallen, strewn casually on either side of him, and sometime in their revelry he had drawn up his legs so that his feet now rest flat and his knees point to the sky. Graciously safer, now, and ever still beautiful. His chest rises and falls, and his cheeks are tinged a healthful rose. 

_Oh! Such good this air here does him!_

And when Frodo's head lolls towards Sam, hair sprawling softly over the wooden boards, and he grins up at him, glinting eyes suddenly melting into pools of unguarded love, Sam knows that despite everything he will not be able to pull his gaze from Frodo again this night.

**Author's Note:**

> This one, short and plotless though it is, has been percolating ever since my first read-through, so I'm pretty excited to actually get it out there! 
> 
> Writing in Sam's POV is so fun sometimes because he's just such a big sap. 
> 
> Nothing keeps me going better than utmost honest feedback. So please feel welcome to share your thoughts if you want, & thanks so, so much for checking out my work! <3


End file.
